


tell me, love (how destiny is bullshit)

by AlwaysRain



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Destiny, Families of Choice, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, M/M, Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post-Season/Series 01, look its a fix-it fic bc i am sad and i need these interactions, we got them found family vibes up in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22359034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysRain/pseuds/AlwaysRain
Summary: Geralt doesn't believe in destiny. He refuses to believe in destiny. Except for the fact that Ciri believes in destiny enough for the both of them, and she won't stop until Geralt believes, too.-----“I thought you traveled with a bard.”Geralt feels his shoulders stiffen. He forces himself to relax before flicking his golden gaze from the roasting rabbit to Ciri’s pale face. She watches him intently, as if she knows he won’t answer unless she pesters him about it. He heaves a sigh and turns the spit. Grease drips from the rabbit and hisses in the flames.“Not always,” he grunts, hoping it will be sufficient.But Ciri is bright and far too insightful for Geralt.“People tell stories about you,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Not about you and Yennefer, but about the Witcher and a bard. The White Wolf and his barker.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 2306
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute...





	tell me, love (how destiny is bullshit)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatLadyMarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLadyMarie/gifts).



> 1\. this is a shamelessly self-indulgent fix-it fic that's heavy on the found family and i'll die by these relationships (also geralt is far too Soft™️ but do i look like i am ashamed???? i do not.)  
> 2\. @catladymarie (on tumblr!!! follow her!!!) is perfect and wonderful and encourages me to write my shamelessly self-indulgent fic ideas so thank her for the fact that this exits  
> 3\. i'm on tumblr @alwaysraineh pls come yell about the witcher with me!!!!!!!!  
> 
> 
> 4\. no betas we die like men

Ciri is a quick and clever girl, and far too curious for her own good.

Geralt had a sneaking suspicion of this back in Cintra, before the siege, when he was introduced to the ‘princess’. The way everyone spoke of her, with a hushed sort of awe and reverence in their voices, had him doubting the girl presented to him as Princess Cirilla; there was no way this demure child could be the Lion Cub of Cintra. He should have known that the real princess would be disguised as one of the boys playing knucklebones in the street, not sitting around the palace in a heap of skirts awaiting orders from her grandmother.

He’ll deny it to his dying breath, but a part of him knows that it was destiny that brought him to Ciri; there’s something about her that captivates him, that pulls him in and makes him feel the urge to ensure her safety. In some ways, it is the same feeling he has around Yennefer. Around Jaskier. Which makes it all the more painful when she asks about them.

She had demanded answers about Yennefer the moment she had found Geralt in the woods and he had reluctantly provided them. After all, he couldn’t have avoided her questions after she had shared visions from his fever dreams during the fall of Sodden. Avoiding questions about Jaskier is much easier, considering none are ever asked; Ciri has no reason to know that the bard exists, so Geralt can ignore that part of his past and all of Ciri’s ridiculous theories about the way destiny works.

Until he can’t.

They’d stayed with the merchant’s family just long enough for Geralt’s leg to heal and news of Sodden to start spreading. Then was the moment that Geralt had decided they’d overstayed their welcome and told Ciri to pack her bags. He’d taken her around Sodden to the north, intending to hide her away at Kaer Morhen for the winter, until the snows melt into rivers and the soldiers searching for her have begun to give up hope.

It’s been nearly a week on the road and they aren’t covering as much distance as Geralt had hoped they would. He’s starting to worry that Ciri won’t make it all the way to Kaer Morhen without stopping at a few towns; even wrapped in her cloak and shrouded by a thick hat from the merchant’s wife, she shivers beside the warm fire. Geralt realizes he’s brooding and makes an attempt to clear his expression. Jaskier had always called it his ‘scary face’, and he doesn’t want to give Ciri any more reasons to fear him.

She’s been quiet all afternoon, and hasn’t said a thing since they set up camp in a small copse of trees. Geralt would worry, but he’s not exactly sure what to worry about. So he kills a rabbit, skins it, and roasts it- at least he’ll be able to provide Ciri with a hot dinner tonight. He considers saving the skin to make mittens for her, but grunts and tosses it aside after a closer examination. It’s too ragged to be any warmer than the mittens she’s already got.

“I thought you traveled with a bard.”

Geralt feels his shoulders stiffen. He forces himself to relax before flicking his golden gaze from the roasting rabbit to Ciri’s pale face. She watches him intently, as if she knows he won’t answer unless she pesters him about it. He heaves a sigh and turns the spit. Grease drips from the rabbit and hisses in the flames.

“Not always,” he grunts, hoping it will be sufficient.

But Ciri is bright and far too insightful for Geralt.

“People tell stories about you,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Not about you and Yennefer, but about the Witcher and a bard. The White Wolf and his barker.”

“Ciri-”

“Why isn’t he here?”

Geralt draws a deep breath and tells himself not to cuss around children. “Fuck,” he says, despite himself. Ciri is still watching him, waiting for an answer to her question. She’s nowhere close to dropping this. Geralt smothers a growl of frustration, just barely.

“We parted ways.”

“Why?”

“We- … _I_ made a mistake.”

Ciri frowns, confused. She draws her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you try to find him?”

“Because we’re going to Kaer Morhen.”

“But Geralt-”

“Hush. You need to eat,” Geralt grumbles. He turns the spit one last time before reaching over the fire to rip a leg from the rabbit and hand it to Ciri. “Careful, it’s hot.”

She accepts it delicately and holds it a moment to let it cool. When Geralt doesn’t look away from her, she makes a face at him and takes a bite. He turns his attention back to the roasted rabbit, satisfied for the moment. They eat in silence, and Roach rustles through the dying grass for a meal of her own. Geralt makes a mental note to give her some oats before he turns in for the night.

“What’s his name?”

Geralt grunts, not bothering to look at Ciri this time. He can feel her eyes boring into the side of his skull, waiting to see if he’s going to ignore her long enough that she’ll have to repeat herself. It’s a battle of will, and Geralt has always thought himself quite good at those. Until he met Ciri, that is.

“Jaskier.”

Ciri brightens immediately, pleased with herself for winning this round. She allows herself a smug grin until Geralt shoots her a dangerous look and she bites into her rabbit leg again. She allows the topic to drop until they’ve finished their dinner and refilled their waterskins in the creek. Then, just before Geralt ventures out from their small camp to find more dry firewood, Ciri speaks up with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“You’ll find him. People linked by destiny always find each other.”

Geralt harrumphs and rolls his eyes. He pushes her backward off the log she’s perched on, earning a shriek of laughter, and refuses to dignify her statement with a proper response. And yet, hours later, when she is curled tight against his side under the one blanket he owns, he finds himself awake and staring blankly at the stars. Destiny is bullshit, he tells himself. Ciri was a lucky coincidence and Yennefer was a foolish wish. Which leaves Jaskier simply a remarkable concurrence of events. An accident and a mistake that is no one’s fault but Geralt’s own.

~*~*~

Three days later, they are mercifully close to a little town when it begins to rain. Ciri refuses to complain, but Geralt can tell she’s tired of being on the road. If he’s being honest, he’d quite enjoy a hot bath himself. The only problem with trying to get a room for the two of them is that Geralt has very little coin; he hasn’t been hunting lately, and townspeople are notorious for paying him less whenever Jaskier isn’t around to sing his unwanted praises.

He leads Roach into the stable, grateful that no one stops him before he can get her out of the rain. Ciri wordlessly takes Geralt’s hand in her own and presses close to his side when they run through the rain from the stable to the tavern door, then presses even closer once they’re inside. A quick scan of the small tavern reveals no noteworthy threats, but Geralt gives Ciri’s hand a gentle squeeze to reassure her anyway. The barkeep looks them up and down as they approach; Geralt only just barely resists the urge to check that Ciri’s hood is still covering her ashen hair.

“I need a room,” he says, hoping he sounds firm and not intimidating. It’s a fine line that he’s never quite gotten the hang of. “For my daughter and I. Just for the night.”

The barkeep raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Only a couple left. Any requests?”

“A bath,” Ciri pipes up. Her fingers tighten in Geralt’s hand. “Please.”

The barkeep names his price and Geralt hums his disapproval. They don’t have enough coin for that. He could bargain, but that would likely land them in the cheapest room, with no dinner and no bath. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he’s not sure he has any choice but to offer his services to the town.

“You have a drowner infestation,” he says. It’s not a question- he’d seen signs of them in the wide, lazy river not far outside town. “Give us the room and I’ll take care of the drowners.”

Recognition sparks in the barkeep’s eyes, and Geralt fights a frown. He hates this more than anything else; the moment when people realize who he is, _what_ he is, and any control he had over their opinion of him vanishes. But a moment later, the barkeep nods and hands him a key.

“Second door on the left, Witcher. Keep it quiet, ya hear? I don’t want no trouble.”

Geralt grunts. “Nor do I.”

Ciri is reluctant to be left behind, but Geralt convinces her he’ll be back before the night ends. She can buy herself a good, hot meal downstairs as long as she’s careful to keep her hair covered, and then she can lock herself in their room until Geralt returns. She can have a hot bath. She can sleep in a bed, with proper blankets, near a fire that is contained in a hearth. She’s still nervous when he leaves her, so he indulges her and mutters something about destiny being kind to them.

There are more drowners than Geralt had anticipated. He manages to clear the infestation, but it’s well after dark by the time he returns to town, dripping muddy water tinged red with blood from the fresh cut across his shoulder blade. It stings, but it isn’t deep enough that it won’t heal in the next day or two. Ciri will worry even so, and Geralt will likely have to sit still while she fusses over him despite the fact that it’s completely unnecessary.

Something is different when he approaches the tavern; there are voices cheering and spilling out of the small building, followed by the distinct sounds of clapping and ale mugs smacking together. Geralt quickens his pace, suddenly anxious that he’s left Ciri alone too long. The crowd quiets entirely too quickly for his comfort, and he’s about ready to storm into the tavern when a familiar voice reaches his ears, crooning a lovely but unfamiliar melody.

Geralt can’t believe what he’s hearing; there’s no way this can be happening. He enters the tavern as silently as he can, unwilling to draw attention to himself now that he’s certain the crowd poses no threat to Ciri. And what he sees causes his heart to cease its slow beat, his breath to catch in his throat.

Jaskier weaves his way between the tables, strumming steadily on his lute and wearing a winsome blue doublet Geralt has never seen before. The bard is too caught up in his performance to notice Geralt at first, but the Witcher is drawn nearer to the edge of the crowd like a bewitched man, enchanted by this new song. It’s haunting in a way that none of Jaskier’s other songs have ever been, or perhaps that’s just the barely hidden pain in the bard’s voice.

_“So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?”_

The first day without Jaskier following him around had been infuriatingly silent for Geralt. He’d been saying for years that all he wanted was for Jaskier to be quiet, but the truth was that he took comfort in the bard’s constant noise. He was always composing, always humming a new tune or serenading Geralt with a light-hearted ballad of his own adventures. Geralt had never gotten used to hearing Jaskier praise him, but he’d come to rely on listening to the bard’s voice at any given hour.

It was by no means rare for Jaskier to perform a more somber song, but everything he’d ever composed had been upbeat. This is… different. Something about it causes an ache deep in Geralt’s chest. He can’t help but stare, and he’s too intrigued to fall back when Jaskier catches sight of him and gasps in the middle of the song.

Jaskier doesn’t falter- he’s too good for that- but his voice wobbles and his expression twists into an assemblage of hurt and sadness that makes Geralt feel guiltier than ever.

_“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting…”_

Geralt stumbles an involuntary step closer when Jaskier quickly turns away from him to warble at other patrons. The rest of the song sounds more melancholy, and Jaskier refuses the calls for an encore despite the amount of coin being waved at him. His purse is already heavy, Geralt notes, and this is an adoring crowd, rich for a small town and desperate for quality entertainment.

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to make his way to Geralt through the crowd. Logically, Geralt knows it hasn’t been as long as it seems since he has seen Jaskier, but stories be damned, Witchers have feelings and Geralt has _missed_ his bard. Normally, Jaskier would approach Geralt for a hug, unapologetic and unafraid, but now he simply stands before him and fidgets, his hands twisting nervously together, and Geralt hates himself for the fact that this reaction is entirely his own fault.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says brightly, but Geralt is not fooled. “What brings you this far north? Shouldn’t- shouldn’t you be somewhere down by Cintra?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, too angry with himself to be ashamed of how warmly the bard’s name falls from his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “I… uh. I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been a fool. I was… upset. About Yennefer, and the Child Surprise, and… I should have controlled my temper.”

“Well, come on. It’s not like you stabbed anyone. Not like you did any strange Witchering or anything. You just… shouted.”

“At you. When you didn’t deserve it. I don’t… I don’t expect you to forgive me, I just need you to know how sorry I am.”

Jaskier’s expression softens. He lays a hand on Geralt’s arm and squeezes lightly. “Geralt, you fool,” he murmurs. “I was never angry with you. I never needed to forgive you.”

It feels like a weight has been lifted from Geralt’s chest. He hadn’t realized how difficult it was to breathe, but with Jaskier at his side once more, he can breathe easy again. A flash of blue catches Geralt’s eye from the corner of the room, and he leads Jaskier over to the table where Ciri is waiting for them, studying the way Jaskier eagerly loops his arm through Geralt’s with an analytical gaze.

“Hello, Jaskier,” she says.

Jaskier looks between Geralt and Ciri with no small amount of confusion. “Uh… hello? I- I’m sorry, who is this?”

“The Child Surprise,” Geralt replies flatly. “Call her Ciri.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen again, and then he schools himself and smiles kindly at the princess. “I see. Well, then, Ciri, you must have a review of my performance. Geralt hardly comments, so-”

“You have a nice voice.”

“O-ho-ho!” Jaskier crows, pulling away from Geralt so he can step to Ciri’s side. “ _Someone_ has got good taste, _finally_! You hear that, Geralt? I have a _nice_ voice. A filled pie, thank you very much!”

Ciri makes a face and looks to Geralt, but doesn’t step away from Jaskier. “Is he always like this?”

“Hm.”

“You have an odd destiny, Geralt.”

With that, Ciri pulls her hood further over her face and makes her way through the crowd to disappear up the stairs. Geralt shakes his head, biting his lip to keep an amused smile off his face. Jaskier raises an eyebrow.

“What’s she mean by that?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jaskier. Destiny is bullshit.”

But even Geralt is starting to doubt that.

~*~*~

Their pace does not quicken after Jaskier joins the party, but Geralt finds that he can’t be upset about that. The next few days are spent in the foothills, mountains looming tall to the east and keeping their path straight to the north. Ciri rides Roach, who is loaded with supplies and lead by Geralt while Jaskier saunters along beside them, plucking at his lute the entire time.

He's able to make Ciri smile and laugh more than Geralt thought possible, and that fact adds to the list of reasons he’s grateful that Jaskier had decided to tag along. Of course, he’d complained loudly when he realized they were traveling north, but Ciri’s explanation that Geralt wanted to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen had quickly shut Jaskier up. There’s too much material and inspiration he’d miss out on if he doesn’t accompany them; Geralt’s too stingy with the details, and he refuses to talk about Kaer Morhen. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Jaskier insists. Geralt makes a show of ignoring him, but he’s fairly certain both Ciri and Jaskier caught him smiling.

It’s only after they begin to turn east that the first snows come drifting down from the mountaintops. Ciri sleeps close to the fire, bundled in her cloak as well as Geralt’s blanket, protected from the fresh snow by a makeshift lean-to that Geralt had constructed while Jaskier cooked their meager dinner. Jaskier has his notebook open on one knee and is humming faintly, clearly composing something new. His shoulder knocks against Geralt’s each time he picks up his quill to scribble new lyrics. Geralt watches the firelight flicker over Ciri’s face, thinks about destiny, and finally has the courage to ask the question that’s been on his mind since they left town.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes, Geralt?” he asks, his tone adoring despite the fact that his eyes never leave the page.

“Your song in the tavern. I’ve never heard it.”

“That’s because I didn’t finish it until after.”

After what, Jaskier doesn’t say. Geralt understands anyway. He bites back a fresh wash of shame.

“Right. What- … what is it?”

Jaskier sighs and sets down his quill, shifting so he can look Geralt straight on. Sometimes Geralt forgets just how perceptive the bard is.

“That’s not what you want to ask, Geralt. You know it isn’t.”

Geralt clears his throat and looks away, unable to watch Jaskier’s expression as he forms the words he means to say. “It, uh… you sing about love.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You sing about… _your_ love. _To_ your love.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier’s tone is prompting, but gentle. Geralt sighs. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

“Who…?”

“You already know that, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. Geralt can feel the moment Jaskier’s gaze leaves him, and he glances over to find the bard staring sadly into the fire. “It was… difficult, each time we ran into Yennefer. I knew I- … well. I knew my own feelings would never matter. I was fine with that. But _losing_ you, walking away… I had to have someone to blame besides myself.”

“You could have blamed me.”

“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.” He sucks in a shaky breath and scrubs his hands against his thighs, giving Geralt a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Doesn’t matter now, though, right?”

Geralt frowns. “It does. You were hurt.”

“I’m not anymore. It’s fine! I don’t need to think about that song ever again.”

“Why write a song if you’re never going to sing it?”

“Because, Geralt- … just…. because,” Jaskier mumbles, sounding forlorn. “I needed to process, and people are always in need of new entertainment. It was hard to sing, at first. I couldn’t… I didn’t get beyond the first chorus for weeks. But I don’t… I have other songs, happier songs. That’s what the people want, anyway. Something fun. Raunchy. Adventurous. Not… not _unrequited_ love and pathetic pining and…”

Jaskier cuts himself off with a cough, and Geralt isn’t sure if the pink tinge to his cheeks is embarrassment or cold.

“I’m sorry.”

“I already told you, I was never upset with you, Geralt, I was just-”

“Upset,” Geralt interrupts. “Yes. I know. But when I hurt my friend and he still turns around and writes a love song about me, I generally like to make sure he knows that I know that I’m a horse’s arse. Besides, who ever said it was unrequited?”

This time, the red that floods Jaskier’s cheeks is all embarrassment, and its extremely satisfying to see. He lets out an undignified squeak and stammers, completely at a loss for words. Geralt allows himself a smile.

“Come here, bard,” he mutters, voice hardly louder than a gravely whisper.

When their lips meet, Geralt’s blood sings in his veins. Jaskier sighs into his mouth, and he distantly registers the feeling of nimble fingers threading into his hair with more tenderness than a Witcher could ever deserve. They break apart and Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s, and he’s blinking back tears, and Geralt can’t help but brush his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. He could live in this moment forever.

“Gross,” Ciri mumbles, muffled by her blanket and slow with sleep.

Jaskier falls against Geralt’s chest with a bark of laughter and Geralt throws his waterskin over the fire at Ciri, who yelps and flails under the blanket in an attempt to dodge. She makes a rude gesture at Geralt before gathering his blanket tighter around herself and settling back down on her bedroll. Geralt rolls his eyes and rests his cheek against the top of Jaskier’s head.

Destiny is bullshit, he thinks. But perhaps it's worth believing in.


End file.
